“Certainly,” I answered—­“unless I relieve you of all necessity for trying the experiment in the interval.”

Mr. Bruff smiled, and took up his hat.

“Tell Sergeant Cuff,” he rejoined, “that I say the discovery of the truth depends on the discovery of the person who pawned the Diamond.  And let me hear what the Sergeant’s experience says to that.”

So we parted.

Early the next morning, I set forth for the little town of Dorking—­the place of Sergeant Cuff’s retirement, as indicated to me by Betteredge.

Inquiring at the hotel, I received the necessary directions for finding the Sergeant’s cottage.  It was approached by a quiet bye-road, a little way out of the town, and it stood snugly in the middle of its own plot of garden ground, protected by a good brick wall at the back and the sides, and by a high quickset hedge in front.  The gate, ornamented at the upper part by smartly-painted trellis-work, was locked.  After ringing at the bell, I peered through the trellis-work, and saw the great Cuff’s favourite flower everywhere; blooming in his garden, clustering over his door, looking in at his windows.  Far from the crimes and the mysteries of the great city, the illustrious thief-taker was placidly living out the last Sybarite years of his life, smothered in roses!

A decent elderly woman opened the gate to me, and at once annihilated all the hopes I had built on securing the assistance of Sergeant Cuff.  He had started, only the day before, on a journey to Ireland.

“Has he gone there on business?” I asked.

The woman smiled.  “He has only one business now, sir,” she said; “and that’s roses.  Some great man’s gardener in Ireland has found out something new in the growing of roses—­and Mr. Cuff’s away to inquire into it.”

“Do you know when he will be back?”

“It’s quite uncertain, sir.  Mr. Cuff said he should come back directly, or be away some time, just according as he found the new discovery worth nothing, or worth looking into.  If you have any message to leave for him, I’ll take care, sir, that he gets it.”

I gave her my card, having first written on it in pencil:  “I have something to say about the Moonstone.  Let me hear from you as soon as you get back.”  That done, there was nothing left but to submit to circumstances, and return to London.

In the irritable condition of my mind, at the time of which I am now writing, the abortive result of my journey to the Sergeant’s cottage simply aggravated the restless impulse in me to be doing something.  On the day of my return from Dorking, I determined that the next morning should find me bent on a new effort at forcing my way, through all obstacles, from the darkness to the light.

What form was my next experiment to take?